


5:00pm

by Strength_in_pain



Series: John and his boys [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Gen, Guilty Sam Winchester, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester is angry, Sad Dean Winchester, Scared John Winchester, Scared Sam Winchester, Teenchesters, Weechester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 03:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strength_in_pain/pseuds/Strength_in_pain
Summary: “I said five!” John screamed, just as a loud clash of thunder boomed across the sky. Sam had physically flinched, his water glass spilling in his hands as they trembled.John’s chair screeches across the wooden floor. “I’m not going back on my word.” He was standing, eyeing Pastor Jim with a death glare.OrIt’s three/four days after thanksgiving and John is really angry due to a hunt gone wrong. Dean is being punished and Sam feels guilty as hell.





	5:00pm

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends! 
> 
> So this is just a quick story I whipped up. I have another Thanksgiving one planned for Thanksgiving Day so no worries. But neither story is all hugs and feels because, well, it’s the Winchester’s. But my second one will be a little more loving.   
> Anywho, please enjoy. :)

> **5:00pm**
> 
> **Michigan, 1993. Dean 14, Sam 10**

 

 

Sam’s eyes drifted from his mashed potatoes to the clock in the kitchen. Pastor Jim was staying with Dad in the little cabin out in the middle of nowhere for two weeks. It was nice having someone else try to call Dad down. But right now, Dad wasn’t listening to reason. Sam felt his stomach twist violently as he listened to his Dad shout at Pastor Jim from the bedroom down the hall. 

 

4:35. Damn that stupid clock, Sam thought bitterly. Why couldn’t it speed up. For a brief moment, Sam thought about changing the time, pushing the little hands forward to make it five already, but Sam knew his father would find out somehow. The man was like a walking clock anyway. And then, Sam would be in as much trouble as Dean. So he decided to leave it alone. 

 

4:36. Damn, the clock was really slow. Sam pushed his food around while resting his cheek on his hand. Rain was falling harder by the minute, no doubt causing hell for his older brother. 

 

Seriously, It wasn't just rain, it was freaking downpour. It was heavier than Sam has ever seen it rain. Walking though a waterfall would be dryer. The drops struck the already wet sidewalk, pitting the surface like they were bullets from above. 

 

4:36. Was time frozen? Sam was certain it was. His Dad and Pastor Jim entered the kitchen in a tirade. 

 

“John you let that boy come inside. I don’t care if he was bad. You can’t keep him outside in that storm.”

 

There’s no response from John as he continues to pile a large plate of mashed potatoes and green-beans. It was three days after thanksgiving, but Pastor Jim still had a large amount of left-overs. Sam knew his Dad was thankful for that. 

 

“God help you, John. This stubbornness you have is going to kill you, or worse, your son. I pray there is actually method behind your parenting choices.” 

 

John sat down opposite of Sam. He briefly glanced at the empty chair next next to Sam, then quickly focused on his plate. There was no need to look at Dean’s place. Dean wasn’t here. 

 

“John.” Jim tried again. “Please. Let the boy be done twenty minutes early. He already spent the entire afternoon out there.” 

 

“I said five!” John screamed, just as a loud clash of thunder boomed across the sky. Sam had physically flinched, his water glass spilling in his hands as they trembled. 

 

John’s chair screeches across the wooden floor. “I’m not going back on my word.” He was standing, eyeing Pastor Jim with a death glare. 

 

After receiving one of those glares himself today, Sam allowed Pastor Jim to take the heat. He wanted to stick up for Dean, but sometimes running directly at the bomb just isn’t the answer. After all it was Dean that said if one of them was in big trouble, the other should stay out of it. That way at least one of them can survive. But Sam was feeling the survivors guilt right now. Besides, it wasn’t fun surviving if you know your brother is dying right outside and the murderer is sitting next to you. 

 

“He’s bound to be exhausted.” Jim whispered, looking out the window at the dark rain. “Mercy is the way of the Lord.” 

 

“Jim,” John’s voice is soft now, “He has to learn.” 

 

Sam shifts in his seat, opens his mouth, then closes it again. _Don’t run at the bomb, Sam._ His brother’s words, not his. Still, his brother was right. 

“You got something you want to say, son?” John growls, and Sam blanches under his father’s scrutiny, shakes his head, plainly terrified.

Jim can’t remember seeing Sam this quiet, and subdued. It’s actually terrifying. He’s been like this since John walked through the door earlier this afternoon with Dean right behind. Jim had assumed it was terror that had stolen the boy’s voice, but he’s beginning to think it’s guilt rather than fear that ensures Sam’s silence. But what the boy was guilty of, Jim did not know. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, Dean screwed up a hunt. 

John’s voice is low, but the menace in it is unmistakable. “Eat your supper, then.”

The fact that Sam actually obeys his father, lifts a forkful of food to his mouth, chews and swallows in mechanical fashion, is a true statement of how guilty he must feel. In any other circumstances, John would probably be checking for signs of demonic possession, but tonight he clearly expects unquestioning obedience. And Sam has enough of a sense to comply.

4:45. They settle back into a fragile peace, punctuated only by the muffled ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. It’s louder than usual, each beat magnified by the silence around them, time slowing and stretching with every swing of the pendulum.

When the hour finally strikes, Sam jumps and drops his fork, which bounces off the table and clatters to the floor. The poor kid twitches, then scrambles to retrieve it, the chair legs scraping across the tiles as he shoves the chair back.

John fixes him with a glare, and Jim wonders why John bothers with salt and holy water, when he could most likely exorcise demons with that look. Sam whimpers under the stern gaze, hunching over his plate, trying desperately to make himself smaller. 

 

John stands, goes to the door, and taps his watch. It’s a signal. Dean knows he’s done. But the fact that John wasn’t talking to Dean, scared Pastor Jim even more than Sam being obedient. 

 

After a few moments, the door opens and Dean steps into the back porch. It’s almost as if he showered with his clothes on. His hair isn’t just damp; it’s plastered tight to his skull, tiny streams running down his forehead, beside his ears, dripping off the tip of his nose. The rain trickles down his face, through the splotches of dark mud that colored his once clear skin. Underneath the mud, his cheeks are dark red, and Jim’s not sure if that’s from exertion or from cold. Judging from the way the boy is shivering, it’s most likely a mixture of both.

John nods, another unspoken signal, and Dean begins to strip off his sweatshirt. The water has drenched him right through to the skin, goosebumps rising as he peels the wet fabric away from his bare arms. His trembling fingers pinken in the warmth of the kitchen, and his palms are marred with grimy lines from too many sets of push-ups.

He takes off his boots in a tiny puddle of muddy water, then pulls off his socks too and adds them to the pile of destroyed clothes at the back door. Then he straightens, shoulders stiffening to attention as he faces his father, fighting to control the shaking in his limbs.

 

Sam wanted to kill something. He wants to pick up his father’s shot gun and shoot a bird or better yet, the sky. He wants to blast bullets into the puffy grey sky, screaming at the world. 

John crooks a finger, beckoning Dean, then points to the water. “Drink that, then go shower.” 

“Yes, s-sir,” Dean manages to stammer, his teeth chattering involuntarily. He shuffles over the counter, lifts the glass and drinks obediently. 

“Straight to bed, after,” John says, and then he looks at Dean, perhaps waiting for some show of defiance. But there’s no fight left in the boy.

Dean’s eyes flick over to the supper table briefly, longingly, then he meets his father’s gaze. “Yes, sir.” 

There’s a soft squeak of protest from Sam, and Jim shakes his head in gentle warning. He understands that Sam’s just sticking up for his brother, but it’s not going to help Dean any if Sam kicks up a fuss. Odds are it’ll just make John dig his heels in, and Jim figures he can talk John around later, when he’s calmed enough to listen to reason.

 

Dean heads upstairs, exhaustion making his movements slower than normal. There’s the quiet creak of ancient floorboards as Dean moves around upstairs, and after a minute they hear the faint hiss of the shower.

 

Sam pushed his plate away, and stood very slowly. “Can... can I go to bed?”

 

“It’s five in the afternoon.” John muttered. 

 

“I’m tired and I’m not that hungry.” 

 

“Fine.” John muttered, “but you leave that plate down here. No sneaking any food up to him. And don’t bother him either. I want you in your own room.” 

 

Sam’s lower lip jutted father than humanly possible. “But -“

 

John slammed his fist on the table. He started hurtling forwards, directly at Sam. 

 

“John!” Jim yelled. But Sam was quickly back-tracking.

 

“I’m sorry. Okay, okay. I won’t talk to him.” Sam cried, making himself into a tiny ball. 

 

“Go.” John breathes, turning to the kitchen sink. Sam ran upstairs as fast as he could. 

 

Jim waits for Sam to reach the top of the stairs, for his footsteps to fade as he heads to the bedroom. Then he stands up and begins to clear the table.

“You want me to leave out some turkey?” He keeps his voice even.

“No he’s not eating. He’s going to bed.”

“Yeah, I heard that.” Jim piles the plates on the counter next to the sink. “But the kid’s gonna be hungry.”

John reaches over and turns on the hot water, purposely avoiding Jim’s gaze. “He’ll think better on an empty stomach. Maybe it will teach him something.”

“What’s it gonna teach him, John? He knows he made a mistake. He knows you’re not happy. He’s spent the last four hours running laps in the rain and doing push-ups in the mud.” Jim can’t quite suppress the bitterness in his tone. “I’m guessing he’s had more than enough time to think.”

John stiffens, and Jim waits for the explosion. It’s a fine line with John; criticizing his parenting is like juggling liquid nitro. 

 

John shakes his head in frustration. “It was a stupid move. Risking everything, risking himself—” he breaks off, his voice cracking “— I should have never taken him on this hunt.” 

 

And there it is. The reason for John’s anger, the reason he had broken his son. John’s greatest fear is the thought of his boys being injured from his job. It’s a guilt thing for John too. He knows what this life can do, and he knows what he’s doing to his kids. Which is why he needs them to be careful, to follow directions. 

 

“I told him to check the ammo before we left for the hunt. And he swore to me he checked it. He swore to me it was loaded. Then, in the middle of combat, my freaking gun doesn’t work and I see this damn shifter go directly after my son. I couldn’t do anything! Do you know what that’s like Jim? Watching your son almost die in front of you and not being able to stop it? It’s worse than dying.” 

 

“But he got away. You should be proud.”

 

“He got away on pure luck. He was so damn lucky to be alive, Jim. I should’ve done worse to him. I should go upstairs and beat his ass for lying to me.” 

 

“He didn’t lie to you.” 

 

Both John and Pastor Jim were startled. Sam was standing behind them with tears streaking his face. “It was my fault. I’m the one who unloaded the guns.” 

 

And that’s why Sam felt so guilty. It made sense to Jim now. 

 

“I didn’t want you to leave. I thought if you knew the guns weren’t loaded you wouldn’t leave. It was thanksgiving and we were supposed to be together as a family.” Sam sniffled, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. 

 

“Did Dean know they weren’t loaded?” John asked. 

 

Sam whimpered and took a step back. John slammed his hand on the table, causing a puddle of water that Dean dripped in to vibrate. 

 

“Answer me! Did your brother know? Yes or no. Sam Winchester, I just spent the past four hours punishing the hell out of him, if he was innocent -“

 

“I would have told you if he was innocent, Dad. I wouldn’t have let you do this.”

 

“Is that a yes, he knew?”

 

“Yes sir. He knew. I told him about it so he wouldn’t leave. But when you came in, he beat me to it and told you the ammo was loaded.” 

 

“So he did lie to me.”

 

“Yes sir. But it’s still my fault that he could’ve died. I am so so sorry, Dad.” 

 

“Just go to bed. You’re still not allowed to see him.” 

 

Sam put his head in his hands and began to cry. This whole situation was not what he wanted. But at least his guilt was slightly diminished. He was still sobbing as Pastor Jim critiqued John’s parenting once again. 

 

“So what? Dean gets punished but Sam gets off Scott-free?” 

 

“No. Now Sam knows what will happen if he pulls some stupid, naive, crap again.” 

 

“What? His brother takes the fall?”

 

“Exactly. And Sam has to live with that.”  

 

John Winchester has a reputation as something of a hardass among other hunters, but Jim can’t quite believe that he would punish one son to blackmail the other into obedience. 

 

“Dean’ll pretty much do anything for his brother. I guess that’s my own fault.” There’s sadness in the admission, but Jim suspects that somewhere underneath there’s a hint of pride too. “But I can’t let Sammy take advantage of that. Maybe he’ll think twice now.”

 

“I will, Dad, please just punish me.” Sam sniffled from the corner of the room. “Please let me see Dean. I have to apologize.” 

 

“I said go to bed, Sam.” 

 

This man was a serious hardass. 

 

“But Sammy. Take this to your brother. Tell him I’ll be up in a hour.” 

 

Sam looked at the plate of mashed potatoes, turkey, and green beans, then at his father’s warm smile. He gratefully took the plate and nearly fell up the stairs. 

 

“That’s more like it, John.” Pastor Jim said with a smile. 

 

“Shut up. The boy’s gonna be hungry. I’m not a monster.” 

 

An hour passed, and John is definitely a man of his word. He knocked on his oldest son’s door before entering. He was happy to see Dean’s plate was clean and he was sleeping next to Sam, limbs sprawled out on the bed. 

 

Sam was nervous. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be in his brother’s room or not. 

 

“How is he?” John asked, sitting on the bed. 

 

“Tired. He ate like a rabid dog and then passed out.” 

 

“I’ll bet. Okay Sammy, can you get him a glass of water from downstairs and another plate of food.”

 

“Yes sir.” Sam said quietly. Then very skeptically, “What are you going to do?” 

 

“Nothin. Just scram.” 

 

“Dad. Please, he’s been punished enough.”

 

“Sam.” 

 

His boy’s warm hazel-green eyes were pleading. 

 

“I won’t kill him.” John assured. 

 

“No Dad, please. Don’t mess with him. Just let him sleep.”

 

“Sam. I’m not telling you again. Unless you want to sleep in your own room tonight?” 

 

With that, Sam gave up and went downstairs. John woke Dean gently. 

 

“Hey, how you feeling?” 

 

“Fine.” Dean mumbled, burying his face into his nice warm pillow. 

 

“Muscles sore?”

 

“Very.” Dean admitted quietly. 

 

“Good. I want you face down on that bed when I come back, you understand me?” 

Dean nods, face burning. “Yes, sir.” 

John gives a curt nod, and heads into his own room to get the first aid kit. He waits for a moment, allowing enough time for Dean to get into position. When he returns to the boy’s room, Dean’s still perched on the edge of the bed, in the early stages of freaking the fuck out.

“I blame Metallica.” John folds his arms and glares at Dean. 

Dean just looks even more bewildered. “Huh?”

“Figure something’s gotta have damaged either your hearing or your brain. Because the face down on the bed thing?” He raises his eyebrows significantly. “Wasn’t a suggestion.”

Dean swallows convulsively, his throat working like he’s trying to choke down a golf ball. Then he sighs shakily and obeys the order, settles himself into position, his body tense, strung tight as wire.

He’s expecting a punishment, and although John’s got no intention of beating the kid’s ass, he’s not going to put him at ease just yet. 

“You lied to me, boy.” John sits down beside Dean on the bed, but he doesn’t touch him.

A shudder runs the length of Dean’s spine. “I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough, Dean.” John cuts him off, voice sharp. “I need to know I can trust you, need to know you’ll tell me when the guns aren’t loaded.” 

Dean turns his head, looks up at John, eyes bright. “I will, Dad. I swear.”

“I seem to recall you swearing you’d be fine tonight. So forgive me if I don’t put much stock in your promises.”

Dean flinches, blinks as if he’d been slapped. John feels a momentary twinge of guilt at the misery in Dean’s eyes when his words hit home. Words far more painful than any beating John could ever deliver.

“You don’t lie to me again. We clear?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Okay, then.” John waits a moment, then smacks his hand down on the back of Dean’s leg. He hits him hard enough to leave the outline of his palm on Dean’s thigh, hard enough that he can see the separation between each finger, slivers of pale skin splitting the faint red imprints. 

Dean doesn’t flinch this time, but he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, not quite a whimper.

“That’s enough,” John tells him calmly, and Dean quiets then, visibly relaxes. 

John grabs the Ketoprofen gel, squeezes a dollop onto his fingers. “This should help ease your shoulders.” He swipes the gel over the knotted flesh, pressing deep until the knot yields under his thumb.

Dean groans, fingers twisting in the sheet, but he stays in position, allows John to work the gel deep into the muscle. John eases up a little on the pressure, massages the surrounding tissue carefully. Another muffled groan, this time accompanied by some muted swearing.

John finishes up, pulls the comforter up over Dean’s back, covering his shoulder. “Got to keep it warm, son.”

Dean tries for ‘yes sir’, but he’s already yawning, wildly distorting his reply.

“Try and get some sleep.” John says. “I’ll check on you again later. Sammy’s bringing some food.” 

 

“I won’t do it again.” Dean whispered. Also known as I’m sorry and I feel really bad, Dad. 

 

“I know. Get some sleep.” Also known as I forgive you, and I love you, Dean. 


End file.
